A New Flatmate
by Queen Of The Wasteland
Summary: John is jealous of Sherlock's new flatmate, Moriarty likes baking and Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock have a plan. - Sentimental Crack.


Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock – At least not yet. Muahahah :D – On a different not: I'm not a native speaker and this is more of an experiment so please have some mercy – of course I'm always grateful if you point out any mistakes I made. Thank you =)

The New Flatmate

John Watson was a soldier.

He was well-trained. He knew how to fight.

He could pull his gun too fast for the eyes of most people to follow.

He had killed people. He knew what it meant to see the light in the eyes of his enemies vanish when their bodies had collapsed to the ground and ceased to move.

Suburban life with Mary didn't let his instincts disappear.

Too often he caught himself checking Sherlock's website for any mentioning of a new case. He made up excuses to appear on his best friend's doorstep and at the same time he felt guilty for making up excuses in the first place. It wasn't as if he needed an excuse. Sometimes he felt as if Sherlock had forgotten that he ever moved out. No matter how often he saw his best friend – which was far too often to be proper for a newly-wed man – it simply wasn't enough.

Maybe he made up these excuses for himself. Maybe he need to explain to himself why he was seeking out danger when he had a wife waiting at home.

But there were many things that gave him cause to worry.

~Did You Miss Me?~

What if Moriarty celebrated his return by introducing himself to Mary?

(To Mary, who was a dangerous assassin and knew how to use any object in their house as a deadly weapon, if she ever got into any trouble, he reminded himself.)

Today he didn't need an excuse. Mycroft had called him – to inform him that Sherlock was looking for a new flatmate. John didn't want to believe him at first. He needed to look deeper into the matter.

'What business of his was it, if his friend looked for someone to help him pay the rent?' The rather nasty voice of reason asked. One even more annoying voice, which he could never quite place nor label, reminded him that this stranger could now be investigating crimes with Sherlock. Maybe it was this stranger who now brought one of those seldom honest smiles onto Sherlock's lips. Maybe this stranger would now spend his evenings talking to Sherlock, while the Consulting Detective pretended to listen.

And what if this man wasn't there in the right moment? What, if he wasn't there, when Sherlock did something stupid – like taking any 'bad pills' to prove his genius?

And thus one determined John Watson made his way up the stairs of Bakerstreet 221 on a rainy Monday afternoon to take a look at the situation himself. While he looked forward to seeing Sherlock he also felt slightly suspicious.

What if he already spoke to some candidates?

What if he already made a decision?

What if someone had moved in already? Someone who would remind Sherlock to eat and who would try to convince him that he did need to know that there was a Queen or that the Earth goes around the sun or that he shouldn't put any closed cans into the microwave?

At first everything seemed as usual. Every surface was covered in books, notepads and dust. There were no new bullet holes in the wallpaper. The skull on the wall still listened peacefully to the imaginary music from his headphones and the other, human, skull – Sherlock's old friend – greeted John with a wide smile.

"John." Stated a warm and familiar voice. Sherlock lay on the couch, slightly curled up and still wearing his blue dressing gown despite the time of day. He stretched himself a little, when he sat up. "Why did you come by foot?"

"How do you know I-" Sherlock opened his mouth to explain his deduction but John interrupted him before he had the chance to say a word. "Mycroft called me."

Sherlock shrugged.

"Anthea is one vacation, they remove a wasps' nest at the Diogenes Club – and I ignore him. Who else could he call?" He asked in a bored tone and yawned.

„He said you're looking for a new flatmate."

"He's wrong."

"Mycroft is wrong?" John wondered.

"Yep. I already found my new flatmate." Sherlock vaguely gestured to something behind John and yawned again.

John turned around to face the man who stood behind him.

Sherlock's new flatemate smiled and greeted him with a short nod.

…

John Watson was a soldier.

He was well-trained. He knew how to fight.

Too fast for any set of eyes to follow him, John tackled the man, pinned him to the hard floor and held his arms in an iron grip behind his back. For some reason the hands attached to these arms were dressed in oven gloves, which John noticed absentmindedly while he pointed a gun to the man's head.

"D'd you m'ss me?" The familiar voice was muffled by the rug into which John pressed its owner's face. A terrified John Watson looked up to Sherlock, who watched the scene bemusedly and then back to the man whose back he was sitting on.

"John – you already know Jim, Jim, you know John."

"Jim?" John repeated. So it was no hallucination then.

"He's sitting on my back." Jim Moriarty announced, sounding slightly offended. John pressed the gun harder against the back of his head. Not that bullets seemed to have any effect on the man.

"Jim – _Moriarty_?!"

" Hi!"

„Shut up!" John hissed. „Otherwise I might not control myself, Mr. Moriarty."

Nevertheless he loosened his grip on the Consulting Criminal and with some exaggerated theatrics Moriarty stood back up and straightened his now wrinkled clothes.

"He got a temper, our John Watson." He singsonged in an amused tone.

John studied him more closely.

Instead of a suit he wore sweatpants and a wide T-Shirt with "Keep Calm and Reign On" printed all over his chest beneath a crown and the coronation date of the Queen.

Oh, and the oven gloves.

"I'm so glad to see you again." Moriarty explained cheerfully. Then he followed John's eyes which were fixed on the oven gloves. Moriarty's smile grew even wider. "I'm making biscuits."

John frowned and started at him for another moment. Then he turned around to Sherlock.

"Sherlock…why…does Moriarty…make biscuits…in our kitchen?"

There was a little spark in Sherlock's eyes when John referred to the kitchen as "our" kitchen – but John failed to notice.

"I don't know. I assume he likes biscuits. Do you like biscuits, Jim?"

"Indeed, I do. I love biscuits."

"He loves biscuits." Sherlock explained as if this answered every question John might have. In this moment the alarm clock in the kitchen started ringing and Moriarty clapped his gloved hands together.

"Oh, I can't wait – finally…" He skipped back into the kitchen and John exchanged a confused look with Sherlock. Well, Sherlock seemed more resigned than confused. Obviously this was a daily occurrence.

"Can you explain-"

Before Sherlock could explain anything or John could even finish his question, the door was pushed open and Mrs. Hudson almost floated inside with a tray with cups, plates full of cake and a teapot.

"Good evening, boys…oh, John. I didn't knew you would visit us tonight. If I had known I would have brought more cake…a pity…"

"That…that's alright…I…"

„Oh, please - sit down, sit down…" She exchanged a meaningful look with Sherlock who most surprisingly understood her intention and moved his feet from the couch to the floor. John sat down right next to him and put his weapon back into the holster inside his jacket. If Mrs. Hudson had seen anything she didn't comment on it and even that didn't face John anymore.

"John – how are you doing with those lovely biscuits you made?" She asked in a sweet tone.

"They still have to cool a little bit, Mrs. Hudson." An equally sweet voice answered from the kitchen.

"Wonderful. Could you just fetch John's special mug? The blue one?"

"Naturally."

John frowned even more and looked at his former landlady hoping that she might explain this insanity to him. But the only thing she said was:

"A wonderful boy that Jim Moriarty. Very charming. He might be a cold-blooded psychopath and care a little bit too much for explosives…but at least he keeps away from my fireplace. Not like that Danish fellow."

Moriarty really brought John his mug – his favorite one – and John spend the next hours drinking tea with Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock and Jim Moriarty.

Just while Mrs. Hudson and Moriarty were in a deep conversation about their favorite knitting patterns, John couldn't hold himself back anymore.

"What are you doing here? Why did you move in here?"

Moriarty seemed slightly irritated for a moment – then he looked down to the ground and took one of the now almost cold biscuits. He took a little bite, but when John didn't let it go and no one else did anything to pick up the former conversation, he seemed to notice that he had no other choice but to answer.

"I got kicked out." He admitted sheepishly.

„Kicked out?" John asked. „Kicked out from where?"

„From my own home. Sebastian threw me out. "

John raised a brow. There was actually a person with the courage to throw out Jim Moriarty? A criminal mastermind with the temper and the maturity of a five year old?

"Who's Sebastian?"

"Sebastian – my Sebastian. He said…He…said…" Suddenly Moriarty's lower lip started trembling and he took another biscuit. "He said he doesn't need a man who fakes his death one day before the wedding."

Mrs. Hudson gave him a comforting pat on the shoulder.

"And…how long until you two will…kiss and make up?" Meaning: How long will I follow Sherlock's each step, share a bedroom with him and maybe even stand next to him in the shower with a loaded gun?

Moriarty shrugged.

„It's too late." He admitted ruefully and looked down to his shoes. „It's over."

His shoes…John remembered the threat that Moriarty made so many years ago at that old pool…

~I will sssssskin you…~

He shuddered. Then he turned back to Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson.

"I'm going to move back in here. I will get my sleeping bag from the attic and I will stay!"

Angrily John rushed off to fetch his sleeping back. He wouldn't tolerate this situation.

"He's back indeed." Mrs. Hudson exlaimed happily and Sherlock sat up a little bit straighter on the couch.

Moriarty leaned forward with a conspiratorial expression on his face. "By the way…good ol' John won't find a sleeping back…it disappeared AWOL…I just wonder…~where he will sleep tonight…~"

Sherlock smirked.

"It does seem as if John is back where he belongs…" He stated and turned around to Moriarty. "I can't believe I'm saying this…but thank you, Jim."

"As long as I can stay until Seb sees reason…" Moriarty shook his head and Mrs. Hudson smiled.

"I could never throw out anyone who knows how to make such lovely biscuits."


End file.
